Hope's Halloween Party (Inktober, Saturday, October 10, 2020)

For Inktober, Saturday, October 10, 2020. Prompt word: "hope." Tuckerization: Mella Schmid 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied.

Hope’s Halloween Party 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

As Brendan parked the car, Mella could see that Hope Hodgson’s Halloween party was already going full swing. From tacky lawn decorations to orange strobe lights and blinking orange Christmas lights that ran the length of the front porch, Mella could already feel an approaching headache. 

She turned to Brendan. “Now, if Hope’s boyfriend is here, I want you to promise me you won’t hurt him.”

Brendan sighed. “Can I kill him?” 

“No,” Mella said firmly. “It's my turn. Let’s go.” 

With Brendan dressed as a medieval plague doctor and Mella as a dark specter, they made their way to the front door avoiding the blinding lights and stumbling over plastic Dollar Store figurines. 

Hope answered the door, her body swathed in white bandages. 

“Oh! You’re a mummy!” Mella said. 

Hope gave her a puzzled stare. “But I don't have any kids,” she said.

“No. No,” Brendan interrupted. “That’s mummy, not mom … you know what? Forget it.” He stepped around her. 

Immediately the stench of pumpkin spice hit him like a mailed fist. In response, his larynx slammed shut. “I’ll party on the porch,” he said between gasps stumbling back through the front door. 

Inside, Mella waved at the people she knew. Not sharing in Brendan’s asthma, her nose quickly got used to the pumpkin spice, and she walked over to speak to her friends. 

Minutes later, Hope banged on a plastic cup with a plastic spoon shrieking for somebody to turn down Nickelback for an announcement. It took a few minutes, but eventually, everyone calmed down. 

“I have a special treat for everybody,” she said with a smile. “I made my own beverage for this party with a recipe I made up myself.” 

Hope uncovered a tureen and showed a thick fluid somewhat akin to a newborn’s first disappointing diaper. “Now, who will be first?” she asked. 

She scooped out a large ladle’s worth and let the contents ooze into a paper cup. “C’mon,” she said. “Who is going to be the first to try my new concoction. The first person gets the honor of naming it.” 

Everybody smiled nervously at each other, and Mella could see through the front porch window Brendan fleeing for the car. She sadly shook her head. 

“I’ll try it.” Everybody turned toward the speaker. Hope’s boyfriend, Reginald, held solitary court over in the corner talking to himself, the only person he felt worthy to hear his pronouncements. 

He sauntered over to Hope and took the proffered drink. “Philistines!” he muttered at the partygoers and promptly downed the contents with a gulp. 

Mella later recalled that she could never remember anybody’s eyes growing that large or that a person’s pallor could change into that number of colors. Just like a chameleon, she said later to Brendan, but not as cute as the lizard. 

With a gasp, Reginald fell to the floor and began writhing and screaming on the carpet. Madly, he started flailing his way toward the front porch. Somebody opened the door and let the wailing thing make its way through. With flair, the door was closed behind Reginald as he continued to roll off the porch. 

“What is that stuff?” somebody asked. 

Holly looked with shock at the group. “It’s … it’s just 190 proof Everclear mixed in a blender with a whole bottle of pumpkin spice.” 

Above the stunned silence, Mella spoke. “Hope, I think I have a name for your experiment. We’ll call it Hope’s Autumn Drink.” 

“I like that,” Hope said with a smile. 

“Yeah,” Mella muttered quietly. “Just one sip, you turn colors and fall.”

The États-Unis de France (Inktober, Friday, October 9, 2020)

For Inktober, Friday, October 9, 2020. Prompt word: "throw." Tuckerization: Michael Harder 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

The États-Unis de France 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

From the journal of Michael Harder: 

It is assumed that if you throw the switch to visit a parallel universe that you would also have a reliable means to return to your homeworld of origin. Unfortunately, in my situation, that was not the case. 

It was somewhat a surprise to find myself in the États-Unis de France, but this is, after all, a parallel universe where the tides of history flow differently. The more incredible surprise—more of a shock actually—is that my mechanism for returning to my own world had fried in the transition. Sadly, this world does not have the technology to repair my device. 

I find myself in a world where the New World was colonized mostly by the French, eventually purchasing land from other countries or driving them out when territorial tempers flared. 

There was no war of liberation from the mother country. When France underwent the horrors of the French Revolution, the resulting bloodbath allowed the French colonies to declare independence without much protest. 

Sadly, World War I still occurred, and like my own world, Germany lost the War to End All Wars. However, in my world, hostilities ceased after four hellish years. In this universe, the conflicts dragged on for almost a decade, leaving a Europe so exhausted and devastated that World War II never materialized. Without that impetus for technological advancement, atomic bombs and other weapons of war and the advancements they gave birth never had the chance for development. 

So, I spend my days debating metaphysics in the bistros of Nouveau Paris with the intellectuals of the day, making our points over steaming cups of strong French coffee. 

However, not all is perfect. 

This universe still has mimes. 

Of Saber-Toothed Cats and Corporate Espionage (Inktober, Thursday, October 8)

For Inktober, Thursday, October 8, 2020. Prompt word: "teeth." Tuckerization: Tiffany Ross 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

Of Saber-Toothed Cats and Corporate Espionage 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Tiffany did not care for working overtime and alone, but a significant breakthrough overcame her reluctance, especially when the quantum supercomputer was chewing on a new strand of DNA. Megatherium americanum was on the verge of becoming a new addition to Shivae Laboratories’ collection of Pleistocene megafauna and Dr. Tiffany Ross was committed to being the first scientist of the team to see the final result. 

The DNA would then be assembled by other quantum computers connected to a machine designed for artificial gene synthesis. The strand would be checked and rechecked multiple times, injected into an ovum, and then artificially inserted into the womb of a Shire horse medically adapted not to reject the growing fetus. 

Tiffany checked the computer screen. The process went too fast for her to understand what she saw as base pairs flashed across the screen, but it gave her a sense of satisfaction to watch the computer do its work. 

“Good evening.” 

Tiffany spun about to see a man dressed in black holding a small handgun. 

“I would appreciate it if you would not scream or make any sudden moves," the intruder said. "That would make me nervous, and I’m sure you would like to go home later tonight and not the morgue.” 

Tiffany felt a growing wave of anger but kept it in check. “Corporate espionage, I assume?” she asked. 

The man shrugged. “It’s a living.” 

“So, what are you here for?” 

“I’ll just take the DNA readout for the saber-toothed cat and I’ll be on my way.” He motioned toward the computer screen with his gun, “And then you can continue whatever it is you’re doing here.” 

“The information for the Smilodon is on an external drive,” Tiffany said. “It’s in the safe over there. I would have to go and open it.” 

“Of course,” the man replied. “Be my guest.” 

Tiffany went over to the safe, knelt down, and began spinning the combination lock. “Just out of curiosity, how much are they paying you?” 

“A cool $200,000,” the man said smugly. 

The safe door swung open, and Tiffany ran her finger down the stack of external drives. Each one was solid state and five terabytes in size to hold the massive amount of information. She had individual drives for wooly mammoths, dire wolves, cave lions, cave bears, and other megafauna. Still, if all he wanted was the Smilodon DNA, she was happy to give it to him. 

Slowly, she stood up and turned around, holding the drive so the intruder could see it. “Here it is.” 

“Put it on the desk there in front of me,” he said, ‘and turn around.” 

Tiffany did as instructed. 

“Now,” the man ordered, “start counting aloud to 100 and don’t turn around until you finish. You won’t know when I leave, and it won’t be healthy for you to disobey.” 

Tiffany started counting, and when she reached 100, the man was gone. 

* 

“So,” the director asked, “all he wanted was the Smilodon DNA?” 

Tiffany scratched the saber-toothed cat’s cheek avoiding the big cat’s teeth. She smiled when it flopped over onto its back for a belly rub. Tiffany obliged. 

“Yes, but I made sure I gave him the DNA without the docility modifications, Tiffany said. “Whatever lab sent him is going to discover what we discovered when we grew our first Smilodons.” She shook her head as she continued rubbing the Smilodon’s belly. “Vicious creatures and amazingly intelligent. I would even call them evil. Just have our own corporate spies keep their ears open for a lab massacre.”

The director shuffled his feet nervously as another Smilodon almost knocked him down rubbing itself against his legs. “I’m surprised we were able to keep the news of our own massacre quiet, but then nobody knew what we were doing. We operated well below the radar.” 

The director gingerly reached down with obvious trepidation and scratched the second Smilodon’s head as it twirled around his legs. “Thank heaven, they didn’t come for the Terror bird DNA. We lost an entire lab and a contingent of security personnel to that monster.” 

“True,” Tiffany said. “The only thing worse than teeth is a bulletproof beak that can crush skulls.” She gave the saber-tooth another hearty rub and stood. 

“Time to feed the dire wolves and exercise them,” she said. “You up for a really aggressive game of fetch?”

She Walks in Beauty (Inktober, Wednesday, October 7)

For Inktober, Wednesday, October 7, 2020. Prompt word: "fancy." Tuckerization: Tommy Chastain 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

She Walks in Beauty

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

                                                She walks in beauty, like the night
                                                Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
                                                And all that’s best of dark and bright
                                                Meet in her aspect and her eyes ...
                                                                                            ~ Lord Byron

Tommy could not help but notice the beads of sweat on the pawnshop owner's forehead. He smiled at the proprietor and returned to examining the doll. Coming in at four feet, she was amazingly light, and her detail was immaculate. Dressed in fancy Victorian dress and crinolines, any collector would have murdered to add her to their collection. 

Tommy could not recognize the material the body was made from. Neither porcelain, china, nor plastic, the skin was smooth and unblemished. 

"How much?" Tommy asked. The price on the tag said $400, yet the pawnshop owner was sweating. For some reason, he seemed very eager to let the doll go. 

After haggling, Tommy walked out of the shop carrying his newest prize. A steal at $200, Tommy knew he could resell the doll on eBay or Amazon Market for triple the price. 

Later, he examined the doll and her clothes for any identifying label or mark, but she remained an enigma. A search on the 'net could not pull up any dolls like her, and that would make her difficult to sell, but Tommy had made a decision. He was going to keep her, a permanent part of his collection. 

That night Tommy was awakened by a noise from his den. He listened for a moment and then heard the den door open. Tommy sighed to himself. Not this again, he thought. 

He raised himself up on one elbow and watched in the shadows as a four-foot-tall silhouette in Victorian dress ran by his bedroom door. "Now I know why the shop keeper let you go so cheap, Tommy muttered. "You scared the daylights out of him." 

Tommy got up and peaked around the door. From the kitchen came faint noises. And going for the knives. Why do they always go for the knives? 

Tommy went to the bed stand and opened a drawer taking out various holy symbols. He hung them from the doorknob, closed the door, and securely locked it. 

Without further ado, he climbed back into bed and went to sleep. 

The next morning the doll was back on her shelf along with the rest of Tommy's collection. Taking her carefully down, he found the butcher knife tucked among her petticoats. 

With a sigh, he took her down into the basement to his workshop. 

That night, he sat awake in his living room. At 1:11 in the morning, a time fancied by most animate dolls, he once again heard the door to his den open, followed by the sound of tiny shoes making their way down the hall. 

He waited until he knew she was hiding somewhere in the living room, stalking him. 

"I know you can see and hear me," he said. "I want to show you something. Do you see the tray on the little table near the window? Watch this." 

There was a flash, and a sudden pop as a device on the tray exploded. 

"Now that was just a tiny device. The one inside you is twice as powerful, and I have the controller. So, a question, my dear. Do you behave, or do I blow you into tiny bits?" He paused for a moment. "Good night. Just a reminder that I'm a light sleeper. I can turn you into a pretty firework well before you can even touch me." 

He got up and returned to his bed. Not too many minutes later, he again saw a silhouette in Victorian dress walk by his door back to his den. 

Tommy was determined to return to the pawnshop owner in the morning and find out who originally pawned the doll. Tommy had many, many questions. Especially as to why, when he cut the doll open to insert his explosive, the wound bled. 

Also, tomorrow he would have to talk to that preacher man he knew about obtaining some more holy water. The injections should keep the doll from any more nocturnal wanderings. Despite the explosive he implanted in her, Plan B's were always paramount. Anyway, the monthly holy water injections kept his other three dolls still at night, and Tommy had grown weary of hiding his kitchen knives. 

With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes, rolled over, and went to sleep.

The Rats in the Walls (Inktober, Tuesday, October 6)

For Inktober, Tuesday, October 6, 2020. Prompt word: "rodent." Tuckerization: Wesley Lowe 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

The Rats in the Walls 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Furiously, Wes stabbed the numbers on his cell phone and waited as the number rang through. 

“Maintenance,” a weary voice responded. 

“Mr. Trattoria? Wesley Lowe, Room 1523 …” 

“Is this about the rats in the walls again?” 

“Yes. I can’t sleep at night. You have to do something about this. They run around the walls and keep me up all night.” 

“Mr. Lowe, I’m sorry, but we have fourteen floors of apartments. Nobody else has complained. If we have rats in the walls, you’re still the only resident that hears them.” 

“I don’t care. I want you to come and knock a hole in my wall and see for yourself.” 

“I can’t do that, Mr. Lowe. I’ll tell you what. I’ll have Stanley come up and look around again.” 

“That moron can’t find his own nose …” Wesley said. 

“Mr. Lowe, I’m not going to listen to you insult my partner.” And with that, the maintenance supervisor hung up. 

With a growl, Wes slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. Outside the window, the city of Philadelphia sprawled to the west. 

The Robert Morris had been a famous hotel when it was built in the late 1800s. Still, with the 21st century, tourists wanted more modern amenities. So in 2002, it was converted into efficiency apartments. 

Still, the new owners had not invested too much money in the project. The hot water heaters in the second level basement frequently broke down, and taking the elevators was always a risk. 

And, Wes thought, there were always the rats in the walls. 

True, Wes had never seen a rat in his apartment, but at night he tossed and turned as a mad mob of rodents ran behind the walls, and it was insane that nobody else could hear them. For the last five nights, Wes hardly got a wink of sleep. 

That night was only more of the same. Occasionally, Wes would kneel on his bed and pound on the wall, but that only agitated the vermin more. Putting his pillow over his head, he finally drifted off to sleep. 

That morning, sunlight coming through the haze of Philadelphian skies wakened him. He was sleeping on his back and his mind, slowly coming into full consciousness, was aware of a small weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the beady, black eyes of a large rat. 

With a scream, Wes tore the blankets off and threw them on the floor. Bounding out of bed, Wes saw the rat run under his bed. 

Wes grabbed the footboard and pulled his bed away from the wall with a strength born of fury. 

There, through the trim at the base of the apartment wall, Wes saw the tail of the rat disappear into a large, ragged hole. 

Wes dropped to his knees and peered into the hole. Plaster had fallen off, but what lay underneath was not plasterboard and insulation, but wood paneling. 

Getting a flashlight, Wes shone the light into the hall and saw the far wall was about four feet away. 

Wes had heard the rumors the Robert Morris played a huge role during Prohibition. Tales were told that said that bolt holes and secret passages had been built into the walls. His curiosity caused Wes to forget the rats as he carefully picked away at the plaster. 

Thirty minutes later, Wes had cleared enough of the plaster away to reveal a door, one that swung inward. Carefully, aware of the rats that had bothered him for the last six nights, Wes examined the narrow hallway within his wall. He was not worried about the damage he had done. He could easily replaster the wall and repaint it courtesy of skills learned in his first job in construction right after high school. But his curiosity was aflame, and the wanderlust of exploring something new and odd drove him to solve the mystery. 

The hallway ended where the wall of his bathroom stood to his left, but to his right, the hallway ended at a descending ladder. Wes examined the metal rungs fastened securely to the wall. There was no sign of rust, and the rungs withstood Wes’ tugging. Carefully placing his foot on a rung, carefully, he tested the strength of the metal. Slowly, he went down the latter. It ended at another hallway that paralleled the one above it. 

It was then Wes realized how remarkably clean the hallways were. There was no rat litter anywhere. Aside from a musty smell of enclosed air, these hallways had been unused and unoccupied for man or rodent for an unknown number of years. 

At the end of the second hallway, Wes found a small room with a simple wooden table, chair, and another ladder leading downwards. Old magazines and newspapers lay on the tabletop. Disintegrating at his touch, Wes could see the publication dates were all from the mid-1920s, the height of Prohibition. 

With a smile, Wes, testing the rungs, made his way down the second ladder. 

Carefully, Wes made his way through the hallways and ladders, keeping count until he knew he was level with the hotel's first basement. There, he found the hidden speakeasy with a small hallway that ended at a dead end, most likely an entrance for the public long since bricked up when Prohibition came to a close. 

The barroom itself held no treasures. There were a few empty unmarked bottles long since dry of bootleg whiskey. Dusty tables and chairs stood the same as they had been abandoned decades ago. 

With a sigh, Wes made his way back to the ladder that led upward when suddenly the floor gave way. 

* 

With a groan, Wes came too. Though his back ached, Wes felt nothing broken. Opening his eyes, he saw his flashlight in the rubble, leaning in a way to illuminate the hole in the floor ten feet above him where he had fallen. He had to be on the level of the second basement of the Robert Morris. This room probably served as a basement for the bar above him where they stored illegal liquor. 

Wes grabbed the flashlight, and then he noticed the small reflective eyes all around him. 

There were rats, hundreds if not thousands of them, all staring at him, strangely not moving or making a sound. Merely sitting and looking at him. 

His breath coming in short gasps, Wes carefully stood and spun about. He saw a ladder that would most certainly lead to a trapdoor to the speakeasy above him. Still, his path was blocked with innumerable rats. 

* 

Hours later, the phone to the maintenance supervisor rang, and Mr. Trattoria cursed to himself. Caller ID said it was the lunatic in 1523. 

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone. “Maintenance,” he said. 

“Mr. Trattoria, this is Wesley Lowe in 1523. You don’t need to bother your assistant. I found the source of my problem, and I solved it.” 

Mr. Trattoria gave a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear, Mr. Lowe. I will let my assistant know. Glad you found the problem yourself. What was it?” 

“Well, I’d rather not say as it’s rather silly, but it’s all taken care of. So sorry to bother you. All it needed was a little bit on know-how.” 

Wes punched the disconnect on his cell and sat back in his overstuffed chair. 

Around him and over him, thousands of rats filled his apartment. 

He lifted his hand where a rat balanced itself. Wes scratched it under its chin with his free hand, and the rodent chittered in delight.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “A little bit of know-how and understanding. Shall we do a little bit of exploring of that underground world of yours now? There are just so many more mysteries to uncover!” 

The rat jumped off Wes’s hand, and Wes stood and followed as the swarm poured through the secret door to flow into the lands below. 

The Blade, Sourusutīrā (Inktober, Monday, October 5)

For Inktober, Monday, October 5, 2020. Prompt word: "blade." Tuckerization: Riley Parks 

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied. 

The Blade, Sourusutīrā 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Riley had started out with a team of four. Now it was just down to him. Mount Tanigawa had a reputation for being the most unforgiving mountain in Japan. Since its initial exploration in the early 1930s, 805 people have died on its slopes. Four of Riley's team had now joined that number. 

Fortunately, Riley had no desire to summit the mountain. Somewhere on the side that overlooked the Niigata Prefecture, a shrine stood on a narrow ledge, a shrine that served as Riley's objective and goal. 

Resting for a moment, Riley looked up to see his goal just 50 feet away. Carefully, he surveyed it for holds, some so small as to provide only minimal purchase for fingers and shoes. Taking a deep breath, Riley grunted with exertion as he leaped up to grab at a gap in the rock, just large enough for his fingers. 

With care and exertion, ignoring his growing exhaustion, Riley free climbed the rock wall reaching his goal twenty long minutes later. 

The torii, the traditional Shinto gate representing the division between the mundane and the sacred, stood weathered and cracked only feet away from the cliff Riley had just climbed. Just inside the shrine grounds stood the chōzuya, a well where ritual cleaning took place before approaching the haiden with its altar and religious accouterments. 

Though not a devotee of Shinto, Riley performed chōzu, rinsing his hands and mouth in a symbolic ritual of cleansing. No sense in offending the priest he was sure to encounter in the haiden. 

Riley approached the double doors of the haiden and slowly swung them open. Inside stood the altar where worshipers would invoke the kami that resided in the sacred object carefully sealed away in the honden. 

From behind a sizeable tri-folded screen with detailed pictures of Japanese spirits of legend, a young woman appeared in the traditional dress of a Miko, a shrine maiden who attended to the shrine's daily needs and occasionally performed the sacred kagura dance. 

"How may I help you?" she asked. Her Japanese was archaic, its pronunciation and accent hundreds of years old. "We so seldom receive visitors here." 

Riley bowed low. "My name is Parks Riley," he answered, giving his name in the Japanese tradition. His English-accented Japanese caused no reaction from the Miko. "I have come to ask a favor." 

The maiden cocked an eyebrow. 

"My first request is that you show me your true form. You are a human as much as I am Japanese." 

The young woman smiled, and the air around her shimmered momentarily. In her place, a pure white fox stood in human form. Behind her, she sported nine large, pure white tails that came from behind her dress that had remained unchanged. Her eyes were the color of blue ice. 

"You are an interesting human," she said. "How did you know I was a kitsune?" 

Riley shook his head. "Not important at the moment. My next request is that you destroy something you made centuries ago." He slid his backpack off onto the ground and, undoing the ties, reached in and pulled out a wakizashi, a smaller blade that served as a companion to a katana. 

The fox's muzzle curled up in a parody of a human grin. "Ah, you have Sourusutīrā. I have not seen that particular blade since I sold her over 400 years ago.

"And it lives up to its name," Riley said. He popped the sword just a few inches out of its scabbard. 

The air was immediately pierced by the sound of many voices crying out in agony and horror, a cacophony of the damned.

"Ah," the kitsune said. "The sword sings! I sense almost 300 souls trapped in that sword. My Sourusutīrā has been thirsty."

Riley scowled in response. "One of those voices is my best friend. Another is the sorcerer I took the sword from who murdered my friend with it." He shut the sword back into its scabbard with a click. Immediately the voices stopped. "I want you to destroy the sword and release the souls. As payment, I allow you to keep the soul of the sorcerer."

The kitsune pouted. "But what if I do not wish to destroy such beautiful handiwork? I had it made from a star that fell from the sky. It is the purest iron that does not rust. I labored for hours over its beauty."

Riley whipped out the wakizashi, the point just an inch away from the kitsune's nosepad. "Then I believe your soul will sing with all the others trapped within."

The kitsune scowled. "Well, since you make such a persuasive argument. Come then. The sooner we achieve your goal, the more quickly you can leave my shrine."

Riley followed the Miko outside to the rear of the haiden where a small shed contained a forge

She reached into the large sleeve of her white kosode robe and pulled out a circle of clay beads on a hempen cord. "I trust you will try no trickery," Riley said. "I'll be watching you."

The creature shrugged, her ice-blue eyes betraying her fury at being bested by a human. "The forge requires supernatural strength to create heat to destroy Sourusutīrā," she said. "I must summon assistance."

Riley nodded. "Just remember that I'm watching."

The kitsune began performing elaborate mudras with her furred hands, the beads twining about her fingers as she manipulated the cord about her hands in fantastic patterns. As she muttered words underneath her breath, the clay beads began to glow indigo.

A creature began to emerge from thin air, a Japanese oni composed of nothing but blue light and whose head brushed the thick bamboo poles that formed the roof of the forge. "My assistant is here," she said and slipped the beads back into her sleeve.

The Miko pointed at Riley. "Light the forge. My dæmon will work the bellows."

It was the work of moments for Riley to get a small flame going. The oni immediately began pumping the massive bellows until the coals in the forge glowed with a white heat.

The kitsune directed Riley to take tongs and place a large crucible in the center of the glowing coals.

Riley watched her standing at a safe distance from the white-hot forge, carefully watching the coals, her nose sniffing the heat as it poured from the crucible.

Moments later, the Miko nodded, satisfaction on her face. "Take the sword and place it blade first in the crucible," she ordered.

Riley whipped the blade from its sheath, the cries of the trapped souls competing with the hiss of the forge as the oni aggressively worked the bellows.

For a few minutes, Sourusutīrā held its form, but then, as if finally surrendering to the heat, the blade began to run and melt.

Glowing balls of light poured out of the crucible, the screaming of souls within the sword becoming less as more of them escaped.

The kitsune, watching eagerly, reached out suddenly with her furred hand and grabbed one of the lights before it could ascend and dissipate. She popped the light into her mouth and swallowed, a look of satisfaction on her face.

Riley watched the lights, their number diminishing as they escaped the melting sword. He had no idea which one was his friend, but he felt a sense of gratitude from the stream of souls, and Riley was content.

"We have both kept our sides of the bargain," the kitsune said. "Sourusutīrā has been destroyed, the souls released, and I have claimed a wizard's essence to join with my own." She pointed to the door of the forge. "Now leave."

Riley studied her for a few moments, then gave a slight bow, and backed out the door, disappearing from the entrance.

After a few minutes, the kitsune spun about the face the forge, studying the molten metal in the crucible.

"Dæmon," she said, her voice gravid with fury, "keep the forge going. We shall remake Sourusutīrā, and when we are done, you shall take my sword and be my arm of vengeance."

She turned once again to where Riley had walked away from the shrine, a grim smirk on her muzzle.

(Author's note: This story borrows many elements from my current work in progress, The Shrine War.)

The Radio (Inktober, Sunday, October 4)

For Inktober, Sunday, October 4, 2020. Prompt word: "radio." Tuckerization: Bobbie Laughman

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization only means a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, there are no other similar characteristics implied.

The Radio 

by Alan Loewen 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

"You're listening to Wink 106, and right after these messages, we'll give you today's winning numbers for the Powerball lottery!"

Bobbie paused from loading the dishwasher and turned to give the radio a puzzled look. The Powerball numbers were to be picked tonight, and nobody would have the numbers until tomorrow morning.

 

As the radio blasted some tacky jingle from a car dealership, Bobbie shrugged and turned back to the dishwasher. The announcer had his dates mixed up and could not give out any numbers except those that had been picked some nights before. 

 

After a few moments, the announcer came back on. "Last night's numbers were unique in their pattern: 12, 18, 22, 28, 30, and 32, with the Powerball a perfect 7. There does appear to be a winner in Pennsylvania, and that person will enjoy a 250 million dollar win!"

 

That's weird, Bobbie thought. Having played the Powerball intermittently, she knew the last numbers drawn a few nights ago followed no such pattern.

 

Later that day at the grocery store, on a whim, Bobbie played the numbers that had been announced the night before and put the ticket securely in her purse. The next day, the newspaper gave the winning numbers, and Bobbie was shocked to discover she was now a multimillionaire.

 

Shaking her head, she turned on the radio to Wink 106. After listening to The Piano Man for the one-thousandth time, the news came on. The announcer went on about the state's governor being admitted to a Harrisburg hospital for a debilitating kidney stone attack. 

 

Oddly enough, no other Internet news site gave any information on the governor’s health.

 

The next morning she saw on the front page of the newspaper the governor had taken ill and was recovering comfortably at UPMC Pinnacle. The diagnosis was kidney stones.

 

Bobbie stared at her radio in disbelief. Unless somebody was playing tricks on her, the station allowed her to pick up broadcasts one day in the future. Oddly, the rest of the stations on the dial did not seem to be affected. Still, when she dialed the radio to 106.1, she somehow received accurate future reports.

 

Bobbie stunned friends and family with her prophetic utterances on who won football games and guessing headlines in the weeks and months ahead. Not a greedy person by nature, she would sometimes buy a lottery ticket for people who had hit hard times but only select four or five numbers that still gave a substantial prize, but not enough to trigger questions as to why there was a significant number of winners in south-central Pennsylvania.

 

Bobbie enjoyed her new life of leisure as one of the nouveau-riche, knowing she could increase her wealth anytime she wished. And though she bought a new car and other luxuries, she still kept her old radio and listened to it intently every day.

 

It was almost a year later when Bobbie turned the radio on to hear the next day's headlines that were yet to happen. Instead, a woman, wailing in gasping sobs, came over the radio's speaker.

 

"Please … please, is there anybody else alive out there? Are there any other survivors? They're all dead here! Please … I don't want to be the only one left alive. Can you please call the station? The number is … it's 555-3839. Please. I'm so afraid."